


Welcome to Bournshire

by Starla-Nell (Princess_Nell)



Series: The Bournshire Boys [8]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Bullying, Cheese, Defending Friends, First Meeting, Fluff, Socks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-06
Updated: 2016-06-07
Packaged: 2018-07-12 17:56:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7116643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Princess_Nell/pseuds/Starla-Nell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cullen arrives at Bournshire, where nothing is quite as he expected - especially his new roommate, Alistair.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Cullen Arrives

**Author's Note:**

> This occurs in 9:24 Dragon.
> 
> Previous works in this series address how Cullen and Alistair each came to be at Bournshire.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen's 13, and he hasn't eaten in hours. He's never seen anyone like the Maker-sent girl in the kitchen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can you find Alistair in this picture?

Cullen shifted uneasily on the family’s plow horse and reassured himself once again that a layperson from the Chantry would be able to return it well before harvest started in a week or so. It was funny: he had spent four years craving a chance to learn to be a templar and serve a greater cause, but now that he had it, he couldn’t quite put his old responsibilities aside.

The packed-earth road became a packed-earth street of Bournshire. There was just enough trade and service here to support the small monastery behind the Chantry: no more, but no less, either. The road was certainly more active than the Honnleath market at this hour, even on festival days.

They passed a small lake, deeper than the nearly-swampy body of water back home, but not nearly as big as Lake Callenhad. Maybe it only qualified as a pond. They entered the monastery gate further downhill.

The monastery itself was housed in a good-sized castle complex, several buildings within high stone walls. Just inside the gate, they encountered the wooden stables. Cullen clambered down from his horse, suppressing his anxiety, which bubbled from his hopes for this place. After one of the templars, named Ser Clancy, had explained where Cullen’s horse was to go in a day or two, it was taken away with the others by a boy about Cullen’s age. He wondered why the boy wasn’t also studying to become a templar, but he disappeared quickly into the barn. Cullen turned to look at the next building: the Chantry.

The front was easily twice as big and three times as grand as the wooden structure in Cullen’s home town. In addition, it was made of stone. It was closer in size, Cullen decided, to the Redcliff Chantry, but its carvings and decoration were more detailed and better quality.

“I know,” sighed Ser Clancy as he passed the gawking recruit. “Downright gaudy, isn’t it? You’d think we were in Orlais.”

“Actually, I was wondering how long this stone has been here, just like this?” Cullen followed up the stairs with tired steps that belied his flying heart. After hoping and dreaming for so long, he would finally be given a chance to make a real difference!

Ser Clancy opened the doors to reveal an abundance of light and motion within. Initiates were preparing for that night’s Chant. As the small group walked in, a vast candelabrum was lowered from the cathedral’s exalted heights so that its candles could be lit with long wicks strung through metal tubes. Only the amount of wick needed to maintain the flame extended beyond its sleeve. As Cullen watched, they finished lighting all of the candles, slid the wick into the metal tube to extinguish it, and raised the candelabrum with some stout rope and pulleys. Golden yellow cloth, embroidered with red swords and flames, was being draped from high rails – balconies, perhaps? Who would stand up there during the service? Clusters of red candles at the statue of Andraste were already lit, most likely by petitioners requesting the Maker’s blessings. As Cullen and the templars walked through the Chantry, some of the initiates looked back with mutual curiosity. Would these be his classmates? Some were about his age. Then it was out the back door, across a huge training ground, and into a large hall with benches and tables to seat and feed two hundred. Right now, though, it was empty.

“Rats,” exclaimed Ser Braonan, “we missed the main meal.” Cullen could hear plenty of noise coming from the kitchen.

“Braonan,” directed the Knight-Captain wearily, “you and Cullen see what they can round up for us.”

“Of course, Ser.” Ser Braonan caught Cullen’s eye and twitched his head toward the kitchens. Delighted, Cullen followed as quickly as his exhaustion would allow him.

  
The kitchens were a riot! Every dish in the place seemed to be caked in unrecognizable food residue, except a small pile of clean ones next to a red-haired boy at the sink. There were a half-dozen people in the place, piling and scraping dishes and platters. One shouted impatiently, “Hands! I need runners, lots of runners. Done by Chant, people!”

“But Chef, we’re already going – ”

“FLY HER APART, THEN!”

The entire kitchen chorused, “Yes, Chef!” and the pace increased even more as Ser Braonan snagged a passing elf with an urgent gesture. Cullen tried not to stare. No one at Honnleath could afford to keep elves, so he hadn’t seen any so close before. This one was about his age. He kept getting distracted by her cheekbones.

“May this recruit and I take some of those leftovers off your hands? We just came in from the road.” Cullen’s stomach complained, punctuating the templar’s words.

The cheekbones looked dubious. “You cleaning up after yourselves?”

“Maker, yes. Whatever you like. We’re just hungry.”

“Then Chef Francine won’t have my hide. Take this ham–” and here she handed Ser Braonan the platter she’d been carrying – “and I’ll get your friend the roasted turnips and some cheese. I don’t know if we have any bread left.”

“Thank the Maker for sending you.” The smile below the cheekbones said he might be overdoing it a bit, but Cullen couldn’t fault him. It felt like a druffalo was doing laps inside his stomach. If it weren’t for the din of the kitchen, Cullen was sure he’d have gotten everyone’s attention.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Hestia01 for being Chef Francine. 
> 
> Next chapter: the dish-washing boy introduces himself.


	2. Introductions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The young dish washer has a mysterious question that shall reveal much about Cullen's future life as a templar recruit. Maybe. Why are the adults laughing?

As Cullen and the templars were finishing their leftover repast, the light faded enough that the late-summer air blowing through the open doors finally cooled off and the elf from the kitchens brought them a few candles. Ser Braonan nodded to her, “Thank you, Lileas.” She smiled and gave a small, polite bow before returning to the kitchens. 

Cullen listened intently as Ser Braonan continued to describe the Bournshire Chant ceremony for his benefit. Suddenly, the dish washer from the kitchens, the boy with the short red hair, appeared and sat down across from Cullen. 

“Greetings, I’m Alistair. I’ll be your roommate for the foreseeable future.” Cullen’s first impression of this boy was that he carried himself exactly as a templar should. He was about Cullen’s height. In that first greeting, his intonation and bearing were perfect. Cullen felt like the country boy he was. 

“My name is Cullen. How do you know we’ll be roommates?” 

“It’s obvious, isn’t it? I’m the only one without a roommate. Now, I have an important question for you. Consider your answer carefully, because it will probably indicate how well we get on.” 

Ser Braonan groused, “Shouldn’t you be at Chant?” but Ser Clancy seemed to back Alistair up. 

“This question is probably well-suited for its purpose. Young Alistair has developed some expertise on the subject.” 

Cullen glanced at the Knight-Captain to see if he had a view to contribute, but he was focused on the last of his food. Perhaps he would delay passing judgment – or showing interest – until he’d actually heard the question. 

Cullen turned back to the boy, Alistair. “You’ve given this question thought, I take it?” 

“Yes, and extensive testing,” the boy insisted seriously. “Of all possible questions, I’m pretty sure this is the best for this kind of thing.” 

“I see.” Cullen considered. He wasn’t expecting this kind of test so early. What sort of question indicates so much about a person? Come what may, this was the path he’d chosen. He would rise to the challenge. “Alright, I’m ready.” 

Alistair took a breath. “What do you think of the cheese?” While Ser Clancy burst out laughing and Ser Braonan scowled at Alistair, he studied Cullen’s face, awaiting a response. 

“Beg pardon?” Curse the hillbilly accent. He’d done so well suppressing it on the way here. 

“I know they gave you some. Look, there’s a bit left still. What do you think of it?” 

“It’s … cheese, I guess,” Cullen said more carefully. 

“Exactly! Nothing special. It’s just cheese.” 

“Is there something wrong with cheese?” 

“Well, I guess you wouldn’t know, but we have that same farmer’s cheese every single day!”

As a farmer’s son, Cullen wasn’t sure how to take that. “Good?” 

“No, not good! It’s cheese! I suppose you could call this a chevre, but that might be giving it too much credit. Besides, sticking to one type of cheese is a wasted opportunity. We, as growing boys, need a little variety in our cheeses. A creamy boursin, perhaps! A redolent rochebaron, maybe? Even a nice, sharp cheddar wouldn’t go amiss once in a while!” 

Cullen noticed that the Knight-Captain was failing to suppress his amusement at this turn in the conversation. Ser Clancy had never even tried. His face – his whole being – was a study in mirth. “Wait, so this question is supposed to help us know whether we’ll get on as roommates?” Cullen could hear the exasperation in his own voice. 

“Of course!”

Clearly Alistair was seeing something Cullen was missing. “So, what’s the result?” 

“Well, you haven’t tried to punch me yet. But then, you’re also looking at me like I’ve lost my mind.” 

“I’ve just met you. I’m questioning whether you ever had one.” 

“Good point.”

“So?”

“So … inconclusive.” 

“So much for your perfect question.” 

“I don’t think you can blame the question. I think it may just be how we’ll get on as roommates.” 

“I have no idea what to say to that, so if you don’t mind, I’ve come a very long way today …” 

“Of course. I’ll show you to the room, then stash myself in a corner to write my lines. You can completely ignore me at that point.” 

“Your lines?”

“Yes. I seem to have gotten into a bit of trouble in Sister Grumpy’s class. Oh, sorry, Sister Moyra.” 

“Why do you call her Sister Grumpy? Isn’t that disrespectful?” 

“Well, I don’t call her that to her face! Usually.” 

Cullen gave him an incredulous look. Laughing, Ser Clancy took Cullen’s plate and waved him on ahead. “I’m sure with Alistair as your roommate, you’ll get plenty of opportunities to wash dishes in the future.” From that, Cullen gathered Alistair took on this task often. Perhaps he wasn’t quite as irresponsible as he seemed. 

Alistair led the way. When they got to the room, he said to Cullen, “Oh, good, they brought you some clothes and socks. Soap and such, too. Washroom is down the hall and to the right. Oh, darn, we’ve missed tonight’s Chant after all. Don’t worry, they’ll have another tomorrow night.” 

Cullen collected soap, a towel, and a fresh tunic from the bed where they were neatly stacked. The other bed was in disarray, strewn with a tangle of blankets and tunics in questionable states of cleanliness. Alistair shoveled spare scrolls and inkwells under his bed from one of the tiny desks crammed into the room. “Sorry about that, I find I just kind of sprawl to fill whatever space I have available to me. At least the bed was clear.” 

“Shouldn’t you put those away?”

Alistair paused from his work. “Yeah, that’s what I’m doing.” 

“They belong under the bed?” 

“Of course, where else would I put them?” Alistair gestured about the niche they’d been given. Besides the two parallel beds and desks, there was a trunk and a chest of drawers on either side of the door. The chest had a pitcher and washbasin on it, and a mirror hung above. 

Cullen shook his head and ambled toward the wash room. No one was around, except more elves filling the tubs with hot water. They apologized profusely, said they didn’t think Chant was over already, but Cullen reassured them, saying that he had only just arrived and had not attended. Nevertheless, they finished their duties quickly and left him with a choice of tubs. Instead, he fetched the washbasin from the room (Alistair was setting up with paper, quill, and ink at the other desk) and found a wooden stool. He set the stool above a drain in the floor and washed by scrubbing with the soap and dipping the washcloth in the basin to collect rinse water. He bathed this way at home, and it would keep the tubs clean for the next recruits. When he was done, he dried and put on the fresh, light yellow tunic. It had a dull red sunburst pattern stitched into both the front and back. He admired himself in yet another mirror, marveling that he was here –at last! a real templar recruit!– and truly starting in his new life. 

After bathing, Cullen collapsed in his bed in the tiny room and covered his eyes with an arm to block out the light from Alistair’s candle. In a few moments, the sounds of Alistair’s scratching quill and his muttering were drowned out by the sounds of other recruits calling, taunting each other on the way to wash up. The taunts and resulting minor scuffles reminded Cullen of a Honnleath game of traded insults for a goading audience. The game lasted until someone conceded the contest to a particularly clever jibe or lost their temper. 

Eventually, more footsteps led away from the washroom than toward it, until the restless quiet was punctuated by a lone pair of feet sprinting down the hall and a door slamming. The relative quiet allowed Cullen to hear Alistair dressing for bed, which unexpectedly gave way to the morning bustle outside his door. Cullen lifted his arm off his face, allowing sunlight from the lone window to reach his eyes, and realized that he hadn’t moved in his sleep all night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next: Why isn't Alistair wearing any socks?


	3. Socks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On the importance of socks. And initials. 
> 
> Or, how Cullen tipped the scales for Alistair. 
> 
> Or, why Alistair hates templar school.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place the morning after Cullen arrives in Bournshire. 
> 
> Concludes with our first Alistair POV in the series.

“What a night. I don’t think I’ve slept that hard since – wait. Alistair, what are you doing?”

 

Alistair pulled his head out of the trunk, where he had been digging out various articles and strewing them about the room. “What’s your position on socks?”

 

“They keep your feet dry?” Cullen wondered sleepily if this was another “test” question.

 

“Brilliant! Yes, exactly!” Apparently he had passed this one. What a relief. As Alistair turned back to the trunk, Cullen noticed Alistair was fully clothed – except his feet were completely bare. Cullen found trousers and socks of his own as Alistair continued, “You cannot be your best when you don’t have socks. You can get sores. It throws your footing off. Your service to the Maker, ad nauseum, suffers.”

 

“Huh.” As he dressed, Cullen wondered if all recruits were as flippant about their service to the Maker.

 

“Dry socks are ideal.”

 

“Alistair, I don’t know if you are aware-”

 

“There they are!”

 

“What-”

 

“I’ve got you now!” Alistair brandished two socks, each with AR initialed on them. “You thought you could make a fool of me!” he exclaimed as he pulled the socks on, followed by a pair of heavy leather boots. “No one makes a fool of me!” Alistair stomped out the door. “Except me!”

 

Cullen blinked and stared at the open doorway for a few seconds. “What a strange kid.”

 

Alistair’s head popped around the corner, causing Cullen to jump guiltily. “Terribly sorry, would you care to join me?”

 

Suddenly, this goofball is a gentleman again? Cullen blinked one more time, then threw on his boots and followed Alistair down the hall.

 

“Leolin!” Alistair shouted as he approached a doorway and started pounding on it.

 

The door opened to a hulking teen with dark hair and thick beetle eyebrows. “Yes, Alistair?” If Alistair’s intonation was perfect, Leolin’s was overbearing. He was wearing the same tunic and breeches as Alistair and Cullen, but everything about him announced, I’m of noble birth, and I expect you to treat me as such.

 

Alistair started with playing this one straight. “I would like my socks back, if you please.”

 

“Your socks? Alistair, you know as well as I do,” Cullen could hear Leolin’s apparent cronies sniggering in the room behind him, “that templar recruits don’t own anything of our own.” Here, Leolin bowed his head in a serious posture that belied the strangeness of his next words. “Even our _socks_ belong to the Maker.” Someone in the room completely lost control at this point, blasting out with a short, loud laugh.

 

“What’s so funny?” Cullen cut in, trying to get a better look into the room.

 

“They must be reading the latest Randy Dowager,” Leolin blocked his view, and Cullen was too shocked to object. He wasn’t expecting writing of such bad taste to be available to templar recruits.

 

“As if you could get your hands on one of those,” challenged Alistair. “In any case, you know that the Revered Mother gave me special dispensation to have my own socks, after what happened last time.” Alistair brought his relatively sparse frame up to its full height.

 

“Ah, that’s right, you little reject.” Cullen rocked forward at Leolin’s harsh words and change in tone, but Alistair put a hand up to stop him. He remembered the taunting games he’d overheard the night before and kept his temper. “You are completely special here, aren’t you? I think I’d even say you are unique.” Alistair flinched a bit at this, surprising Cullen, but Alistair kept his gaze steady.

 

“I’d like my socks back now.” Cullen approved of the ice in his roommate’s voice. He realized it also held a weight – the weight of authority, borrowed from the Revered Mother.

 

Leolin must have realized it, too, because his tone changed again, nearly making Cullen’s head spin. “Of course.” This was one to watch out for. “If you can find your socks in my room, you are welcome to them. None of them are here, of course, but I’d enjoy seeing you waste your time trying to prove it.” The threatening growl returned to the haughty boy’s voice on the last two words as he gestured expansively into the room, ostensibly welcoming them in.

 

The rattling hiss of laughter these boys gave off as Alistair marched into the room reminded Cullen strongly of giant spiders. Cullen would rather enter a giant spiders’ lair, but no way he would let his new roommate go in there alone. He followed.

 

The layout of the room was identical to their own, except that the trunk, instead of the chest of drawers, was behind the door in this room. There were three more boys, two on the bed to the left and one on the right. Cullen estimated that they could take these three, but the heavyweight Leolin tipped the scales against them. All of the boys were dressed, except for their boots. Their socks made their feet look like Rosalie’s dolls: shapeless and oversized.

 

Cullen glanced at Alistair. He wasn’t fooled for a minute, but it looked like he’d reached his limit. Cullen couldn’t understand it. He had the power: the Revered Mother had granted it. Well, if he lacked the resolve, Cullen would have to show the older boy how it was done. He took a breath and examined the room for a weak point.

 

One of the boys to the left had the good grace to look a touch sheepish as he tried to grin and share the joke with his friends. “You there.” Cullen was using the voice that always made Branson jump to attention. It worked here, plus it earned him surprised looks from everyone. Cullen was the shortest – and probably youngest – boy here. “Take those socks off.”

 

The kid blustered. “What? These are my socks.” Cullen noticed that he was carefully pointing to the outer surface of the oversized covering. Honesty, even when doing the wrong thing. Interesting.

 

“Of course they are,” Cullen confirmed. “I’ve no interest in those. I’m much more interested in the socks under them.”

 

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Leolin had closed the door behind them. “You can’t just come in here and demand people take off their socks.”

 

Cullen rounded on him. “Can’t I? My brother here, my comrade-in-arms, has authority from the Revered Mother herself to recover his socks. I can only imagine the incident that led to that ‘special exception.’ And I can only imagine the trouble it caused the family of whoever was involved.” Cullen paused to admire the gape on Leolin’s face, then spun back to the weak link. “Remove those socks, if you please.” His tone turned the polite words into orders. As the boy scurried to comply, Cullen added, “All of you,” with all the command he could muster from his limited stature.

 

\---

 

Alistair laughed as he dropped the knitted and initialed footwear safely back into the trunk. Learning to embroider had paid off. “That was brilliant! I’ve committed the look on Leolin’s face to memory. Whatever revenge he cooks up, it will be worth it!” Not least because it would make these monotonous days a little more interesting.

 

“It would have been completely useless, though, if you hadn’t initialed your socks.” Ah, this new roommate – Cullen, was it? – was generous. Alistair wondered warily how long it would last.

 

Nevertheless, he smiled. “Necessity is the mother and all that. You should probably get into the habit now.”

 

“What does the ‘R’ stand for?”

 

It took Alistair a moment, but he was picking up what Cullen was putting down. “Redcliff. I don’t have a proper last name, so I went with where I’m from. How about you?”

 

“Rutherford.”

 

Alistair felt a twinge at that. So the new kid had a family who would at least claim him, even if they still shipped him off to serve the Chantry. “No, I meant where are you from.”

 

“Oh, sorry. Honnleath.”

 

Alistair tried and failed to imagine what anyone would even do in such a place. Maybe the new kid was here by choice, after all. “It’s hard to put initials for ‘the Blighted Middle of Nowhere’ on your socks, so it’s probably best that you have your own last name.” Alistair tried to smile over his bitterness. “And yes, I know Honnleath was never Blighted. Anyway, we should get breakfast, or you might miss your very first class.” Just in case Cullen was actually somehow looking forward to the tedium here, Alistair kept most of the sarcasm out of his voice. He hoped.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next in the series: Cullen is up early. Again. 
> 
> Also, cheese.


End file.
